


Rosemary Smoke

by yolkipalki



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Torture, Broken Bones, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kid Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Nightmares, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Recovery, Trial Of The Grasses (The Witcher), Whump the Witcher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28619637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolkipalki/pseuds/yolkipalki
Summary: Blood. Its blood. Blood on the walls and floors, it seeps through my shirt and clings to my skin like hot oil. It’s warm. Feels hot, almost burns. Has blood always been this hot?Lost in a fever dream, Geralt finds himself trapped in a memory out of a nightmare, back in the place where he once died.  Jaskier tries to reach him and bring him back, but nobody leaves that place unscathed, even now, so many years later.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	Rosemary Smoke

**ROSEMARY SMOKE**

**by Lemon**

* * *

* * *

An inhuman scream rips through the air, calling out to me in pure agony. Begging for mercy. Mingled in the wailing I hear my name. It’s echoing off the trees and sending the birds crying into the dark sky. But I’m no longer outside. No. I’m somewhere else now. Somewhere dark and cold. It stinks of blood, and fear and torture. 

What happened? What the hell happened? 

It's so dark I can barely see. For someone who can see through darkness well, to be blind like this is paralyzing. I smell the iron of blood and it twists in the back of my mouth. I brace for the stench but the air changes, smelling of something else entirely now. Like juniper branches, like rosemary. Rosemary?

_ “Do you smell that? You always tell me you hate it but it’s strong. And I..."  _

Think. Remember.

I’m fine. We are safe...were safe. We had been just fine. Now suddenly, now everything is falling apart so quickly I don’t know what to grasp at first. 

_ "-not sure what else to do. It's rosemary from Skellige.” _

I look around for the voice but there’s something on my face and my hands and it tingles and trickles. It’s... _ fuck _ . Blood. Its blood. Blood on the walls and floors, it seeps through my shirt and clings to my skin like hot oil. It’s warm. Feels hot, almost burns. Has blood always been this hot? It shouldn’t feel so hot, should it? Maybe my hands are just cold and it's sticky and it’s moving so fast, spilling. Gushing. How much can a human bleed before they die? How much blood is too much blood? Such delicate creatures. Doesn’t matter. 

Stop. 

No. 

Focus. Just fucking focus. Focus.

It’s not blood. 

Not all of it, not anymore. 

It’s sweat...bile and urine...tears, poison. 

I stand in the room, fighting the urge to run, unable to convince myself to move. There’s a young boy. He is so little, so pallid and thin like a bird. His skin is painted with deep bruises. He’s clawing at the ground, dragging himself closer and closer. 

A wailing rattles through his chest, his limbs trembling as if they would collapse, like a house made of twigs. It’s loud, no, it’s deafening and clarifying and it’s not human. Humans don’t make those, can’t make those sounds, it’s not human. It’s something else. My heart seizes in my ribs and nearly flips on its side. Fuck, I’m going to be sick. Control my breathing, I can control my breathing. Get a fucking grip. The boy doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He’s still pulling his limp body across the stones. Closer and closer. 

I want him to stop, need him to stop. I need to get him off the floor, get him out of here. But I can’t move and I can’t look away. Someone needs to help, this boy needs help. I open my mouth to shout but my tongue is thick in my throat and I can’t speak. The boy’s raw fingers dig at the worn leather of my boot. His wordless pleading, the agony in his bloodshot eyes, the intoxicating, overwhelming stench of fear. I hear myself cry out before I notice I’m doing it. I manage to stop it, to catch the caterwaul with as much grace as a bird hitting a windowpane. 

The boy is so young, as young as I was when I was here. I know this boy, I don’t know where I know him from. But his face sits in my gut like a rock. His sandy hair and his wren feather eyes. I have to know him. If I didn’t know him then how would I remember what his laugh sounded like? How could I know that he was once afraid of frogs. Why is he here? He doesn't belong here. He isn't safe here. No one is safe here. He retches all over himself and the floor. I’m trying to focus, trying to think. Trying not to panic but I can't, there's this voice and it won’t stop. It’s like light filtering through water. It's a song, I’ve heard it before. I know I have. 

_ Oh, wretched war, what did you do? _

_ Our homes became quiet _

_ Our babies lift their eyes _

_ And grew up far too soon. _

_ They hardly graced our doorsteps _

_ And were gone, soldier after soldier... _

It’s not the boy. No, he can't speak, his mouth is full of blood and bile, and the smell of it, the sight turns my stomach. I choke it back down. Losing my shit now isn’t going to help either of us. I want to look away. I can’t. 

The wild eyes beg and they blame. I can almost hear them as if they’re saying, “Why did you bring me here? How could you do this?”

The blood trickles from the boy's eyes like tears, dribbles from his button nose. It runs black as it pours around the curves of his chubby cheeks. He is pleading, begging, whimpering. I try to lift him to rescue him, to save him but I still can’t move. Why can't I move? 

_ Don't hide away, little boy _

_ One day you’ll do wondrous things, _

_ Spare neither silver nor steel, _

_ Spare not each other, but still _

_ Do what you can to come back. _

_ Come back home to me _ .

The song again. But it’s drowning in a voice that rips through my ribs like fractals of ice.

There’s a mage, he’s coming for the boy but he’s in no hurry. He knows the child can’t escape and he’s savoring every step. He reaches me, lifting his hood and he’s just standing there, faceless, watching as the boy crawls across the ground like a dying animal. 

_ Farewell, boys. My little boy, _

_ Do what you can to come back. _

_ Come back home to me. _

I pick him up and I hold him close. But I can’t keep my footing, my legs crossing like a newborn fawn. I fall on my back, the air rushing from my lungs, I throw my arms around the boy to brace him. I don’t remember when I started to cry but I’m sobbing now. I sob into his hair the words spilling from my mouth are one long stream of nonsense. 

I scramble away from the mage, scooting along the floor with the child held to my chest. The boy clings to me like a lifeline, his chest fluttering like wings of a moth. Suddenly it stops. It’s silent and it’s still and he’s heavy. 

“ _ Please...you have to keep breathing, come on. I know it’s hard. Gods fucking damn it all. You have to breathe.”  _

I’m begging now and my voice crumbles like dry bread in my throat. _ The wind leaves my lungs at the sharp pain that digs into my chest as I drive my knuckles into the boy’s sternum with a twist and hear him gasp deep.  _

_ “There you go. Good. Just like that, darling. You’re going to...okay...when you are, you can tell me all about...you hate me.” I hear. But the voice...my voice sounds far away, muddied. Because it's not mine. Not my words, not my voice. _

There is shouting now, frantic shouting. Witchers or wizards - it doesn’t matter. They’ve come for the boy. They want to whisk him away into the darkness but I can’t let them. I’m not going to let them take him as they took me. Tell him the lies they told me, that they told the other boys before they would scream. Because if they take him away to the tables the screaming won’t stop. It doesn’t stop. The screaming never stops even after it kills them, their faces are still frozen in agony, they still scream and I can hear them. They get louder and louder until I can’t think. 

They paw at me, trying to pull him from my grasp but I don't let them. I break teeth and bone, twist hands and fingers until I hear them crack and splinter in my grip. No one is going to take him from me. I won’t let them.

_ A halted scream. It stops itself, muttering gentle words that I can’t hear, that I can’t understand. I smell rosemary again. The singing is garbled like someone is sobbing through the melody. _

_ Let them say you believe in nothing, _

_ Claim you don't know where you're headed _

_ Or what we’re fighting for _

_ Do what you can to come back. _

_ Come back home to me. _

I know the next words, gods what the fuck are they? Why does it matter right now? It shouldn’t. It doesn’t. I’ve got to get out of here because I know what will happen to me if I stay and I can’t let that happen, can’t watch that happen again. He’s gone though, the boy is gone and it’s just me now. I’m alone again like I was so long ago. When my sandy hair was shorn. When the mage dragged me away and strapped me to the table. When I screamed until my wren feather eyes cried blood.

I wrestle and wriggle, squirming with what little strength I have left. My arms and legs burn, the muscles twisting and cramping beneath my skin. I lift my head and look down at my body. The body of a man mangled and mauled, and far too old to find himself here. The leather catches and slips against the plasma and blood that leaks from my wrists, like weeping wounds. Nothing seems to matter right now but getting away, getting out. I’m crying, but I don’t have any tears left. It’s reduced to dry and violent heaves but they sound like laughter, and maybe it is. I pull my wrists as hard as I can muster, the spike of fresh pain is clarifying. 

Someone have mercy and let me die. Someone end this refined agony that rings out through every nerve in my body. Have to get away. Have to get free. Focus. Just focus. Fuck.

I need to break the restraints. I almost can, I’m so close I can almost squeeze my fingers through the leather that cuts into my wrists. Mumbled voices, deep ones, vibrate in my chest. But it all stops, the ice in my veins flays me open again. 

No. No, no, no. Please. Please, no more. Please, anyone. I’ll do anything. Anything. Make it stop. The gods, devils, kings, whores. Anyone. Won’t anyone save me? Why would they? No one was there to save me the first time? Why would this be any different? 

I don’t want this. I never wanted this. I can’t take it anymore. 

I stop telling myself that it can’t get worse because I quickly remember that it can, and it will. It will always get worse. Worse and worse and worse until I beg to break, to seize and choke on the tongue that sits like wool in my throat. 

Just let me die. 

The faceless mage is here, the one who took the boy. He took the child and he broke him. I can still hear him screaming, begging for mercy. He calls my name and it echoes off the damp stone. I don’t have to imagine what horrors he endures, I know what they’re doing. 

They’ll wring his bone and muscle through a vice, scribbling notes in their journals and books. Again and again, they’ll do this until there is nothing left. Until he’s dried out and withered and they can fill him up with poisons and make him into a monster. He looms over me as if to calm me down, his hands held in a gesture of surrender. I can’t, I won’t listen to what he has to say because I already know it’s a lie. He’s so gentle and cautious, his hands warm and tender. It’s not right, something here isn’t right. It’s confusing, I shift on the table, something digging into my shoulder. 

_ “ _ _ Come back...please come back. Do what you can to come back. Come back home to me. I can’t do this without you.”  _ The faceless man sings and begs and it’s a garbled mess, I can barely understand it. I feel him lift the restraints from my wrists. He’s sitting on the table, on top of me, holding my face in his hands. 

_ “I just want to help. I’m here to help you. Please, feel. Feel this. Feel this.”  _

Gods, I want to believe him so bad that it almost shatters me but I can’t. I won’t listen because it’s nothing but a lie. He tries to slide something into my palm but I clench my fist.  _ Warm fingers press deep into the stiff muscle and run down my shoulders to my hands, pulling me down, prying my hands away _ just like they did when they took him. When they took the boy.

_ His hands grip my shoulders but it’s weak and unsure, fingers trembling as they paw at my shirt. I can feel his throat give beneath my hands, his ribcage seizing desperately for air, his legs sliding from beneath him, collapsing onto mine.  _

_ “Ple-please…” He mouths but no sound is coming out. His throat is slowly collapsing, crunching beneath my hands.  _

_ The warm pitter-patter of his tears sprinkles my face. I look up at the faceless man and his face is melting, something forming beneath. I see eyes of glass, hollow. They dart across my face in terror. I know those eyes. No, this isn’t right. No that’s not. Those are wrong. They’re wrong and they don’t belong here. They don’t look away, they meet my gaze with determination and fear.  _

_ The look of a man who is staring at his death, but refuses to look away. _

* * *

Geralt felt the solid weight of the ground beneath him like a tether, a small rock poking into the meat of his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of the fire on the side of his face, could smell the smoky spice of burning rosemary as it wafted through the gentle wind. He was in the woods, at camp...he had been hunting something. That was right, he had made camp, hadn’t he? 

He tried to sit up but the movement burned in his muscles, causing them to tremble until they felt like they would snap like dry reeds. The attempt to sit upright caused his heartbeat to pound behind his eyes and the world around him to spin violently. The skin of his face tingled. As he turned his head to look around he felt something peel itself from his cheek and fall to the bedroll. He held it up to inspect it, the gold embroidery catching in the firelight. They were strips of silk that had been soaked in tepid water and laid carefully across his face. This was a doublet. Jaskier’s doublet. At least he assumed that it was, it certainly wasn’t  _ his _ . 

_ Jaskier...where was Jask- _

Geralt’s world came to a crashing halt at the faint sound of Jaskier’s hoarse, hacking cough. He was curled into himself shaking violently. He lay beside Geralt in the dirt, weeping quietly. He looked awful, he was disheveled covered in dirt and dried blood. One arm sprawled beneath him at an awkward angle, the other pawing at his throat, his face smashed into the ground. Geralt’s thick, sticky thoughts were still clouded by the haze of fever. They sent his head spinning. Without thinking he reached out a hand toward Jaskier but hesitated as his brain caught up with him. The acrid stench of fear gushed from the bard, his heart pumping spastically. 

Did he...? Had he done this? Geralt was responsible for this.

Jaskier turned to him and smiled tenderly and something inside of Geralt shattered. 

“Don’t.” Before he could think he was muttering the word, again and again, swallowing the sting of tears.

“Hmm?” Jaskier furrowed his brow in confusion, his eyes dimmed with pain, their brilliant color drowned in the soft glow of the roaring fire. Gods, what eyes. They were blameless, fearless.

Jaskier struggled to roll onto his back, cradling the arm that had been beneath him. He tried to pass it off, turning his torso away to shield the hand from Geralt, who snatched it from the air with ease. He held Jaskier's forearm, turning it over slowly and grimacing as Jaskier winced. The wrist was swollen, deep red and purple pooling beneath the milky skin.

“I am afraid that my bird bones broke before your fever did. Fret not, though.” Jaskier smiled, forcing a laugh that neither of them found very convincing. "My fingers are all fully functional." He wiggled them ever so slightly to indicate that they were intact, he looked exhausted. He watched Geralt’s face for a moment, his expression shifting before he scooted closer to run his trembling fingertips along the contours of Geralt’s cheek.

“Oh…no, no. Shh...hush, darling. You’re alright. You came back...you came back to me.” The words were tender but jarring, his voice was not the milk and honey that Geralt knew so well, it was rough and raw.

Shame tore through Geralt, tainting every emotion he seemed to possess. It clung to them, igniting and sending them off like sparks from a bonfire to set the dry reeds ablaze. It was a spooked horse running through the murky bed of a river, kicking up things he’d rather not remember, things he’d rather not feel, drudging up emotions he didn’t have a name for. 

Jaskier must’ve sensed that Geralt needed space. He moved slowly around the camp, replacing Geralt's bandages, hastily wrapping his own wrist in a makeshift splint, and wetting the strips of cloth he had used to cool Geralt’s fevered skin. He was eerily quiet, not a whisper not a hum escaping him as he worked. Geralt wished he would say something. The silence he clamored after for years was heavy now. It was oppressive and suffocating, like the smoke of a wet fire. 

It wasn't until Jaskier propped Geralt upright to help him eat and drink that Geralt broke the silence. 

He hadn't intended to. In fact, he was absolutely certain he did not want to discuss what had occurred. But it hung over him like a rain cloud mere moments before a storm. Dark and heavy like bruises on a broken wrist.

“When I would wake on the table, sometimes...I would think of my mother...would try so hard to remember her face. Surely she had one. She must have had a smile, a laugh, a touch. Was it tender? Was she still alive? What did I do that was so evil? What did I do to deserve…" He laughed, it caught in his throat. "Why did she send me away? But…” He grunted as he shifted, clearing his throat, his eyes still fixed on the starry sky. “I decided that the answers no longer mattered. I would never know why and I’m sure if I ever found out that the truth would not satisfy me. She was as dead to me as I was to her. So I resolved to never think of her again.” 

The smell of Jaskier’s sorrow, of despair, was so strong that Geralt could practically taste it. It was heavy and cloudy, like brine and milk.

“We all died that day, even those of us who survived. I died in that room, on that table. The day we were brought together for the trials.” Jaskier pulled his legs to his chest, resting his cheek on his knee and watching Geralt with an odd reverence. “The worst part is when I think about it. When I really try and remember the boy who died there. I can’t. I can almost see his face, his eyes. But he’s lost. I don’t know his name, I don’t remember how old he was...or if anyone out there loved him.” 

“There is.” Jaskier let out a pained sigh, tears cut veins in the dirt and blood on his cheeks. He looked deep into Geralt’s eyes, a gesture that Geralt typically avoided at all costs. But he found himself lost in them now, the firelight like the sun streaming through stained glass. 

“He was loved…” Jaskier held the witcher’s face in the palm of his hand as though the act itself could piece him back together. 

“He is loved..." Jaskier hummed.  Geralt found his heartbeat steadying to match the rhythm of the thumb that smoothed back and forth across his cheekbone. 

"And he shall be loved for the rest of his days.” His voice was hoarse but soothing, whispering through the rosemary smoke and the cooled strips of silk. Geralt  tried to keep his eyes open but he was just so tired. 

“Rest now, love. And when you wake, come back home to me.” 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This piece was an exploration of the ways that childhood trauma can linger and manifest. I wanted to try something different and illustrative, hence the first-person present-tense that you see for a majority of the fic. The formatting, tenses, and perspectives were an attempt to express what it can feel like to be lost in the space between nightmares or memories and the waking world. 
> 
> A Note on the Lyrics: 
> 
> The song that Jaskier sings to Geralt is a Russian folk song that Yasha, who was like a mother to me for many years, would sing to me. She would card her hands through my hair while we sat on her front porch under the oppressive Texan sun and watched my siblings play in the street. Sometimes she would smudge rosemary and juniper almost like a wand of sage and I remember the smell vividly. I had trouble interacting with children my age and I would sit for hours and listen to her stories. Often when she would tell me stories and she'd preface them with this. "In this life, there is always good and always bad. So I will tell you one story that does not have a happy ending and one that does. Both are true. Both are important." She was always singing and I cherish these moments. The song itself is called [До свидания, мальчики (Do svidanjia mal'chiki) by Bulat Okudzhava](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQbfl7qxlW8). It is about young boys that were ripped from their homes and taken to be soldiers, growing up fast, never get to enjoy being children and if they survive afterward they know nothing but war. 
> 
> I hope that you enjoy it and remember to take care of yourself. Burn some rosemary for me, 
> 
> love, lemon


End file.
